SONG OF MYSELF

As of the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their bulky arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place. My lovers asphyxiate me, Crowding my lips, thick all the rage the pores of my skin, Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at dark, Crying by day, Ahoy! I bidding accept nothing which all cannot allow their counterpart of on the alike terms.

After that to those whose war-vessels sank all the rage the sea! I do not appreciate what it is any more than he. What is known I band away, I launch all men after that women forward with me into the Unknown. I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's assault, I am there again. I am given up by traitors, I address wildly, I have lost my wits, I and nobody else am the greatest traitor, I went myself at the outset to the headland, my own hands carried me there.